Orestes (excerpt)
A few fiery fingers pass over our chests successively
marking detectable circles around the nipples
and, circle after circle, we get excited, around a vague,
unknown, yet defined center — endless circles around
a deaf scream, around a knife wound; and the knife
is driven deep in our hearts, making a center of it, like
the post in the middle of the threshing floor, up
on the hill,
and all around it, horses, wheat ears, winnowers,
workers; next to the haystacks women winnowers,
with the head of the moon on their shoulders, listening to
the horse neighing to the far away end of their sleep,
listening to the urinating bulls among the osiers and
blackberry bushes, the thousand feet of the centipede
on the water pitcher, the crawl of the tamed snake
in the olive grove and the creak of the warm stone
that tightens when it gets cold.
Libros Libertad 